The Road So Far
by kellyofsmeg
Summary: It's just two weeks after Mary died, and the remaining members of the Winchester family are living on the road, still experiencing shock-waves from the loss of a wife and mother, as well as other unanticipated horrors. A look into the early days of the family business. Wee!Dean, Baby!Sammy, Protective!John.
1. The Road So Far

Disclaimer: Supernatural is not mine.

**_THE ROAD SO FAR..._**

The past two weeks had been absolute hell for the Winchester family.

On November 2, 1983, beloved wife and mother, Mary Winchester, had been killed, or rather, murdered—as her husband John would claim. Murdered by who or _what _he didn't know, but he was adamant that the fire was no accident. The official police report said that Mary died as a result of an electrical fault that triggered the fire. But John knew the truth—or at least part of it, even if no one else believed him: he had seen his wife burn alive on the ceiling of the nursery of his six-month-old son, put there by some unknown entity—her stomach eviscerated, staining her white nightgown scarlet. The second story of their home and half of their belongings had burned along with her, not that the loss of their personal belongings was of any consequence to John after losing his wife so suddenly and disturbingly.

During the fallout, when John was so grief-stricken he could barely function, he and his two sons, Sam and Dean, had stayed with his business partner Mike and his wife, Kate. Like everyone else, Mike thought that John was crazy when he told him what he saw the night that Mary died. Mike had told him he needed help, to go see a psychiatrist—but John refused; he knew what he had seen. He'd never went to any shrink after his tour in Vietnam, and he sure as hell wasn't going to now. He ended up selling his share of the garage to Mike, using the money to buy his small family some security—in the form of his own small armory of artillery.

Having refused to see a shrink, John sought the counsel of a different kind of specialist: a local psychic by the name of Missouri Mosely—the real thing. Having left his boys with Mary's best friend Julie, John had went to see Missouri, looking for answers. He had reluctantly returned with Missouri to the ruins of his home, where she was able to sense that something had been there, something truly evil—something that had killed Mary.

John returned to Missouri again, desperate for more answers. This time, a blood sacrifice had been required on his part. Missouri had held John's hands as they had a joint vision—where they saw, among other things, a wall with the words "WE'RE COMING FOR THE CHILDREN" written in blood.

John couldn't remember anything between seeing the writing on the wall and finding Sammy and Dean safe, practically crying with relief as he gathered his boys up in his arms. But Julie—something had ripped her to shreds. John knew they couldn't stay in Lawrence anymore. That same day, he packed up the boys and the meager possessions of their former life into the Impala and left Kansas, with no intention of ever looking back. There was nothing for them there anymore; it had stopped being home the moment they lost Mary. He doubted anywhere would ever feel like home again. Not without his wife. His Mary.

Still on his quest for the truth, John was now following a lead given to him by Fletcher Gable, a hunter he had met through Missouri. Fletcher had advised him to keep a journal and write down everything he learned about what was really out there in the dark, especially if he didn't want his sons to become orphans. John had shown Fletcher a large, curved tooth with strange engravings carved into it, which he had found in Julie's body. Fletcher had said he recognized the symbols from some cemetery gates in Eureka, California. So that's where John and the boys were headed. But when it was clear that Sammy and Dean couldn't handle another minute in the car, John had pulled into the first motel they saw with the vacancy sign lit up to find them some beds for the night.

...

TBC

AN: Just a little opening chapter to get some of the exposition out of the way in the manner that the show does, so just imagine all of that in a cool clip show set to classic rock ;D

All the events here came straight from the first entry in John Winchester's Journal. I don't know how many fans have read it and are familiar with John's back story, but I find it both tragic and fascinating at the same time. Definitely worth a look into!

I've already finished writing this story (I never post WIP's for fears of updating one chapter but never finishing and leaving people hanging) so I'm posting it all in one go :)


	2. Demon Eyes

It was here in the shady discount motel room that John now found himself locked in a battle of wills with a tiny opponent.

"Please, Sammy. Just one bite," John Winchester pleaded with his unyielding six-month-old son, having spent the best part of the past hour trying to force-feed him Gerber's mushy peas and carrots. For his efforts, little Sammy's bib and the tray of his high chair had been generously fed, but not so much as an ounce had made it into his little one's stomach. Sammy pursed his lips and turned his head away from the proffered spoon. John rubbed his eyes, feeling frustrated and fatigued. Unfortunately for both parties, each was as stubborn as the other.

"You've gotta eat something, Sammy," John coaxed, offering the spoon again, and was awarded a petulant stare from his youngest for his efforts. The kid had to be hungry; they had spent the best part of the day driving across two states and none of them had eaten in hours. By the time they checked in, it was long past their usual dinner time—and bedtime, for that matter.

Maybe that was it. Maybe Sammy was too tired to eat. But still, John couldn't very well send him to bed on an empty stomach. Leaving Sammy to stew for a moment, John glanced over his shoulder to see how his other child was faring. His four-year old son, Dean, camped out on the bed in front of the TV, laying on his stomach and devouring what John estimated to be his third bowl of Lucky Charms. Not the most nutritious meal, sure—and Mary would have balked at the sugar content, but John was just relieved to see his son's voracious appetite slowly returning. Now if only the kid would start talking again...

John turned his attention back to his youngest, and, seeing Sammy's mouth slightly open, John pulled a fast one and deposited the spoon in Sam's mouth before he knew what hit him, gently pushing up on Sammy's chin to close his mouth.

"There!" said John triumphantly. "That wasn't so bad, was it, Sammy?"

Ever defiant, Sammy opened his mouth, allowing the mushy green contents to dribble down his chin. Sighing, John picked up the wash cloth and wiped off Sammy's face again. The kid sure knew how to play hardball. Half-a-year old and they were already butting heads.

For the millionth time, John felt himself longing to have Mary here. He was so lost without her—helpless, overwhelmed. Not only was he a grieving widower, but he now had also taken on the role of nurturer, when previously, he had been the breadwinner. He had never anticipated the possibility of ever having to do this on his own.

John had always been the co-pilot when it came to parenting. Sure, he had changed his fair share of diapers and wasn't a stranger to bottle-feeding, but Mary was always so much better at all this than he was. She had been the one who was home all day with the boys—knew all the boy's little quirks and tricks to make their routine go more smoothly. Mary was the one the boys needed. She could give them everything they needed; he was just struggling to keep them alive and fed.

In Sammy's defense, this whole solid-food thing was new to him, too. John had attempted this feat a few other times since Mary's death, all to no avail. Sammy was just beginning to cut his first tooth, which John associated with his youngest son's fussiness, along with missing his mom, of course. Not to mention that up until two weeks ago, Sammy had been almost exclusively breastfed. He wasn't doing so good going cold turkey, turning his nose up at any solids and tolerating formula only to avoid starvation.

In one last, desperate effort, John swabbed his finger around the rim of the Gerber jar, collecting a small sample. "Look, Sammy, it's not so bad. See?" he said, tasting it. A moment later, John was trashing the mushy pea-carrot mess, casting an apologetic glance at Sam. "Sorry, kiddo. Bottle it is, then..."

John went for Sammy's diaper bag, locating a bottle and a can of formula, which felt overly light. He opened the lid to find less than a teaspoon left. _Damn. _He had meant to stop by a store when they drove into town for some provisions, but it had totally slipped his mind. To say that he had been scatterbrained the last couple of weeks would be overly generous.

There was no avoiding it; he'd have to go on a milk-run—yet another thing that would have been so much easier if Mary was still alive. Before, if they ran out of diapers in the middle of the night, Mary would stay home with the boys while he ran out for supplies in whatever array of dress and consciousness he found himself in when his wife would wake him and hand him the car keys.

But now he was on his own, and John had no other option but to bring the boys with him. He cleaned Sammy up and lifted him out of his high chair, on loan from the motel. He bundled his baby up against the cold, rainy November night—zipping a warm coat up over his sleeper, securing a wooly hat on his head, and finally wrapping him up in a fleece blanket.

Balancing Sammy on his hip, John went over to Dean's duffel bag and retrieved his coat and hat as well. Dean was slumped over on his bed, the flickering lights from the TV flashing across his delicate features.

"Dean," John called, gently shaking Dean's shoulder to rouse him. He felt guilty for waking Dean since the kid hadn't slept in the car nearly as much as Sammy had. But he couldn't leave his four-year-old unattended in a shady motel at night, either. "Wake up, kiddo."

Dean forced open his eyes, looking confused and clearly wondering where he was. His eyes finally focused on his father standing over him, Sammy in one of his arms, the other holding out his coat and hat.

"Dean, Sammy's out of milk. We've got to run to the store," John said as he used his free hand to help a sleepy Dean struggle into his coat. John picked up the remote and switched off the TV. Dean pulled his hat down low, slipped on his shoes, and drowsily followed John and Sammy out of the motel room.

John locked the door to Room 11, casting a nervous glance over either shoulder to see if they were being watched; the things he had seen and learned in the past couple of weeks haunted him more than anything he had ever seen in war, and he was now forever on guard against them; he knew he had barely scratched the surface of the evil that was lurking in the wake out there.

John turned up the collar of his leather jacket against the fierce wind and lashing rain, also pulling Sammy's blanket tighter around his small frame to ward off the damp and seasonal chill. "Come on," John grabbed Dean's hand and the three of them jogged across the damp parking lot, shortly reaching their black '67 Chevy Impala. John unlocked the doors, strapped Sammy into his car seat and Dean clambered into the next seat over, leaning over the side of the car seat to watch over his baby brother. Sammy freed one of his arms from the confines of his blanket, reaching up and touching Dean's face.

John took his spot up front and turned on the engine, lights and windshield wipers, locking the doors for good measure. He checked his rearview mirror to be sure he could see both of his boys, and made eye contact with Dean. "Don't you or Sammy fall asleep, Dean—we'll be there soon."

Dean gave the most subtle of nods to show he'd heard, dutifully holding his little brother's hand. John's heart ached the way it did whenever he thought about how much he missed the old Dean—the one who was always laughing and smiling, who chatted his ear off and told him knock-knock jokes where the punchline made no sense whatsoever, but still made him belly laugh. Now Dean was silent and serious; he hadn't so much as smiled since that night. He kept trying to get Dean to talk, laugh, smile—anything to feel like a normal kid again. John feared that the carefree little boy Dean used to be had died along with his mother.

John drove to a little convenience store he remembered seeing on their way to the motel. There were two other cars in the parking lot and one Harley Davidson. Ever wary, John surveyed the store and the parking lot before deciding it was safe for his boys.

The three Winchesters entered the convenience store. With Sammy tucked to his chest in one arm and a hand on Dean's shoulder, John stopped in the doorway and did a quick surveillance of the store, taking note of the cashier—a middle-aged woman with permed reddish hair, a young couple looking for what appeared to be road trip provisions, and an older biker with more tattoos and piercings than exposed skin. "Uptown Girl" by Billy Joel was playing on the sound system. He felt Dean tense slightly next to him, and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

"We won't be long," he promised his eldest, grabbing a shopping basket. Dean nodded stiffly, remaining glued to John's side as they went up and down aisles looking for baby stuff. John grabbed two cans of formula and a spare pack of diapers. Dean mimed wanting to hold the pack of Huggies, and John let him. Dean had always liked to be a helper, and John was glad it was one trait he still held onto after his recent personality change because in all honesty, he needed all the help he could get.

John headed for the refrigerated aisle to get milk, figuring they were now running low after Dean's cereal binge. He only got a quart; they never stayed anywhere long, so getting any more than that would just be a waste. On their way to the checkout, John felt a tug on his jacket and looked down at Dean, who was pointing at a metal wire display lined with plastic boxes, containing individual slices of pie.

John pulled a box down from the shelf. Dean's eyes lit up, and John felt the ever-present tightness in his heart ease somewhat at the sight. "So you still love pie, huh?" Dean smiled shyly, a sight so welcome to John that he swept half of the stock into the basket. He had found something that made Dean happy, so he was going to stock up like it was the apocalypse. "Try to make it last the week, okay, kiddo?" Dean nodded mutely, still with a small smile. John take his eyes off that smile that hadn't shown itself since the fire, hadn't realized just how desperately he'd missed it until now.

Their basket was now overflowing, so John decided it was best to head to the register before they found anything else to buy. They waited in line as the customer before them was helped, and John idly listened to their conversation—a string of friendly, if not slightly prying questions from the cashier—the sort of banter that supposedly constituted good customer service. John braced himself for small talk, which he was in no mood for. Sammy waved his arms, slapping his little hands on the plastic lid of the formula like a drum. The customer before them picked up his bag and exited the shop.

The cashier looked up as they approached. "Oh, now what do we have here? You've sure got your arms full!" John and Dean deposited their groceries on the counter, and John shifted Sammy to his other arm. "Aren't you a cutie!" she cooed at Sammy, in the ridiculous high-pitched voice adults reserved especially for speaking to small children. Sammy looked startled at being directly addressed by this stranger, and, suddenly shy, buried his face in his father's chest.

"Oh, he is just precious!" The woman exclaimed, clapping her gold-ringed hands together. "How old is he?

These days, John didn't especially feel like offering information about his sons up to strangers, but he figured this question was harmless enough. "Six-and-a-half months."

"Oh, that's a fun age! Are you from around here?"

"No, just passing through," said John, bouncing Sammy on his arm as he started to fuss.

"Oh? Where are you headed?" Wanda asked, ringing up the formula.

"Oh, you know—west," said John, vaguely. They were in Nevada; there was only so far west they _could _go. The cashier, _Wanda, _John read on her nametag—didn't seem fully satisfied with his answer, but he was saved by having to specify when she noticed Dean. "And who do we have here?"

His expression surly, Dean half-hid himself behind John, clinging to his jacket. "Aren't you a handsome fellow—just like your daddy here!"

Wanda looked from Dean to John, beaming. John quirked his eyebrow slightly, busily retrieving his wallet from his back pocket with his free hand. "I'll bet you're a good big brother, aren't you?" Wanda smiled widely, revealing a gold-capped eye tooth.

"Yes, he is," said John, a noticeable tinge of pride in his voice as he put his hand on the back of Dean's head, smoothing his blonde locks that were badly in need of a good de-tangling.

"Not much of a talker, is he?" Wanda said, considering Dean with her head cocked to one side.

"He's just tired," said John said pointedly, hoping to speed the transaction along.

"Poor little guy must be dead on his feet, out this late!" Wanda tutted, picking up one of the cereal boxes to ring up. Spotting the wedding ring John still wore, Wanda said, "Is your wife waiting in the car?"

"No," said John, hoping this would be a conversation-ender. He placed his free hand on Dean's head. "It's just me and my boys."

"Oh, you mean—" Wanda caught sight of Dean's sad, downcast eyes, John's tone of finality—and her eyes widened as she filled in the blanks. "Oh—I'm so sorry! I didn't realize—"

"It's fine," said John shortly, pulling a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and handing it to her. The sympathy of well-meaning strangers had always made him uncomfortable. How could any of them really be sorry? Wanda hadn't known Mary, or what a wonderful wife and mother she had been, how her death had left their family in ruins.

Discomposed, Wanda's red acrylic nails clicked over a few more keys on the register. "Here's your change, sir," she said, her smile a tad too earnest for John's taste.

"Thanks," said John stiffly, taking his change and putting it in the pocket of his leather jacket. He gathered up one of the grocery bags in one arm, and Dean stood on tiptoe to reach for the other. Wanda watched the three of them leave, a sad smile on her face. "God bless you!" she called to their retreating backs.

John felt something hit him as he stepped out the automatic doors, and realized he'd bumped into a woman on her way into the shop. "Sorry, ma'am," John said politely, looking at the stranger with the blonde feathered hair, gaudy hoop earrings, an Esprit top and black mini-skirt. "I didn't see you—"

"Don't worry about it, sugar," the woman said, showing off a lilting smile with painted red lips. Her eyes flickered to little Sammy. "Keep a close eye on this little one—he's special."

There was something about the way she was looking at Sammy that made John uneasy. The woman reached out to touch Sammy's cheek, but John instinctively held Sammy closer, turning him away and shielding him from her touch. The woman lowered her hand, and when she turned her head to look at him, John could have sworn there was something strange about her eyes; they looked too dark. She brushed past them, but when he turned to look around for her, she was gone. John stared at the place where she had seemingly vanished, telling himself she couldn't have just _disappeared—_but had went into the store, and that he had just imagined her black eyes—it was just a trick of the light. He worried about what she had said about Sammy—what did she mean he was special—special _how? _She hadn't even looked at Dean. He found the whole encounter with the woman to be disturbing; she'd made his skin crawl. He just wanted to get the boys back to the hotel as soon as possible.

Still reeling from the brief encounter, John was pulled back to Earth when he felt Dean tugging urgently on his sleeve. "What is it, kiddo?" John asked, looking down at his son. John's eyes followed where Dean was pointing. He momentarily froze as his brain registered what he was seeing, and then reacted instantly, running across the pavement with Dean at his heels. "Hey!"

Two punk kids were standing next to the Impala, they couldn't have been older than sixteen—both rail-thin with ripped jeans, combat boots, patched leather jackets and Flock of Seagulls haircuts. They turned around when they heard John approach. One of them stashed a wire coat hanger behind his back.

John came to a stop, ten feet away from the car jackers. "Get away from my car," he said, his eyes as hard as his voice. The kid with the coat hanger nudged his friend, grinning roguishly. Apparently, a guy holding an infant in one arm, a bag of groceries in the other, and a pre-schooler hugging his leg didn't appear all-too intimidating to them.

The punk with the coat hanger took a step closer to them, sneering. "Oh yeah, pops? You and those rugrats gonna make us?"

Advancing on John and his sons had been a big mistake. In the blink of an eye, John dropped the bag of groceries to the ground and with his lightning-fast draw produced a .44 Desert Eagle from his belt, which was now aimed straight at the car jacker's heart. "I said—_get away from my car."_

The kid dropped the coat hanger to the ground, and he and his friend both put their hands in the air. The leader's eyes bugged out, staring down the barrel of John's gun and taking note of his USMC t-shirt visible beneath his jacket, previously concealed by a bag of groceries. It was clear to them now that they'd picked the wrong guy to mess with.

"Okay, dude—just chill, we're leaving," the kid said, taking a step backwards.

"Not fast enough," said John, making a show of taking off the safety.

"Let's get outta here, man," the other kid finally spoke, grabbing his friend's arm. The two of them turned tail and ran, practically tripping over their feet as they fled the parking lot.

John watched the hoodlums run down the block until they were out of sight. He holstered his gun, still scowling. His expression softened when he heard Sammy crying softly, clearly distressed by the confrontation.

"It's alright, Sammy," John said, holding his youngest closer. He patted him softly on the back, like Mary used to do to calm him down. "Shhhh," he said, lips brushing against Sammy's ear as he shushed him. Sammy quieted down, resting his head against John's shoulder.

John looked down at Dean, who was already gazing up at him with his wide, innocent hazel eyes. "You okay, champ?" Dean nodded fervently, looking at his father with something akin to awe.

Securing Sammy to his chest with one arm, John bent down and collected the fallen and scattered bag of groceries. He inspected the side of the Impala, breathing alleviated to see that those punks hadn't scratched his baby or done any other damage; they must have caught the vandals early in the act. "Dean, keys."

Dean reached into John's jacket pocket, located the keys and unlocked the car. He opened the passenger side door and deposited the groceries on the seat. Dean clambered into the back of the car, and helped John strap Sammy into his car seat. John had just turned the keys when he heard a voice call from the backseat. "Daddy?"

John's breath caught in his throat at these two precious, now rare syllables. He tried not to look or sound too surprised when he met Dean's eyes in the rearview mirror. "Yeah, pal?"

Dean smiled timidly. "That was really cool, dad."

John smiled to himself, his eyes stinging in the corners. "Thanks, son." Those five words, spoken in a slightly raspy voice from disuse, that smile—meant the world to him. It was a sign that he was on the road to getting his son back.

...

TBC

AN: I hope John was awesome enough in this chapter for everyone ;)

I also read in John's journal that it took him years before anyone was able to convince him demons were real, thus him not recognizing a demon when he sees one here. I also learned from his journal that they were followed by demons everywhere, and we learned later that many of Sam's associations (teachers, prom date, friends, etc) were demon spies. So John certainly was NOT paranoid in moving around all the time to shake them off! I imagine this particular demon was a low-grade grunt who was just curious about Sam, knowing what he was/his association with Azazel.


	3. The Storm

They drove back to the motel in silence. John was regretful that his sons had, in their tender young ages, already been exposed to so much of the evil that was in the world. Luckily, John felt that the would-be car thieves had just been two stupid kids out past curfew, looking to cause some trouble. He hadn't seen them as a real threat—not compared to the monsters he was learning were really out there. The woman he'd bumped into had perturbed him far more. John had half a mind to check out of the motel, get out-of-town, and drive all night to get to Eureka. But the boys deserved warm beds to sleep in; even with the heat on, the Impala wouldn't cut it on this cold, wet November night. But this town was justifiably making him uneasy, and he planned to leave at the crack of dawn.

Dean leaned over his little brother, kissed him on his forehead, and watched his Dad drive, strong hands gripping the steering wheel, his silver wedding ring glinting every time they passed beneath a street light. Dean would always remember this night. He'd always known that his Daddy had been a soldier, that he was a mechanic who could fix any car problem, and that he was really great at pitching baseballs. But tonight in a 7-11 parking lot was the first time Dean _really _realized who his Daddy was—a _superhero_. And he knew he wouldn't forget it anytime soon.

…...

"You're a real good helper, Dean," John praised his son, who had insisted on taking in the heavier of the two bags of groceries. Glowing from the compliment, Dean climbed up on a chair to deposit the bag on the kitchenette counter. "Say—you wouldn't want to change Sammy's diaper for me, would you?"

Dean's eyes widened, and he hastily shook his head no. "Well, you can't blame me for trying," John said with the ghost of a laugh, ruffling Dean's hair. "Go brush your teeth and get your pajamas on, okay, kiddo? It's bedtime."

John felt a twinge of guilt as he said this—Sammy and Dean should have been in bed _hours _ago. If Mary had seen the way he was running things now—oh, the scolding she'd give him...still, Dean obediently went to his duffel bag, grabbed his pajamas and toothbrush, and disappeared into the bathroom.

John retrieved the arsenal for changing a diaper from Sammy's bag, putting down a changing pad on his bed and laying Sammy across it. The infant didn't make things easy for him—reaching for his toes, trying to roll over (his new trick) and then fighting against being diapered and clothed again. Like Dean at that age, Sammy liked the freedom of bare skin. With that feat accomplished, John lowered Sammy into his playpen, freeing his arms up to make Sammy's bottle.

John put the milk in the mini-fridge and the cereal in the cupboard, and set about measuring the powdered formula into Sammy's bottle, meticulous about its preparation. Checking to be sure the lid was screwed on tight (never wanting to repeat the incident years ago when he'd accidentally spilled a whole bottle on newborn Dean), he shook the bottle to mix it as he advanced across the room, lifting Sammy out of his playpen. John settled down on his bed, leaning his back against the headboard, bent his knees and laid Sammy across his lap, supporting his head in the crook of his arm. He picked up the remote and switched on the TV, where _The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson _was just starting.

"I hope you're hungry enough to drink this, kiddo. Otherwise we're out of options..." but when John lifted the bottle, Sammy's hazel eyes were suddenly alert and wide, his arms flapping excitedly, little round mouth open in anticipation. John couldn't help but chuckle at Sammy's enthusiastic reaction, holding the bottle at an angle as Sam voraciously drank, his round little hands gripping the sides of the bottle, overlapping his own.

John's eyes flickered up to the TV screen as he heard, "_And heeeeeeere's Johnny!" _He felt another pang in his chest—he and Mary had loved to watch this show whenever they were up late with one of the boys...

"Whoa—easy, champ," said John, tilting the bottle horizontally to restrict the flow of milk as Sammy coughed, choking as he gulped down more milk than he could swallow at once. John sat Sammy up and patted his back until the couching fit ceased, and Sammy once again reached his little arms out for the bottle.

Dean padded over to them, dressed in his fuzzy blue footy pajamas. "All ready for bed?" John inquired. Dean nodded, and John motioned for Dean to join them. "Come on, Dean-o. You can stay up till Sammy finishes his bottle. If you can," he added, as Dean yawned widely. Dean crawled into the bed beside his Dad and brother, resting his head against John's arm that was propping up the bottle. He lifted his elbow up, and Dean snuggled in closer, leaning against John's chest, his arm now around his shoulders. The three of them sat in the dark motel room, lit dimly by the glow of the bedside lamp and light from the TV. John tried his best to watch the program—he hadn't had much of an incentive to watch TV lately; his mind was numb enough. If he hadn't been watching war movies on TV that night, if he'd have stayed in bed with his wife...if he'd gone into the nursery to check on Sammy instead of Mary...

But he couldn't afford to think like that—it would drive him crazy, and his boys needed him. He kept periodically glancing down to see if they were still awake. Dean's eyes were shutting by degrees, his breathing getting slower and deeper. Sammy was still drinking his bottle, though John didn't feel the tug on the bottle as much as before, and then it ceased entirely. He looked down to see Sammy was fast asleep, as was Dean. Sammy had finished about three-fourths of his bottle, which John set on the nightstand in case Sammy wanted the rest later.

He gently removed his arm from around Dean's shoulders, careful not to wake him as he stood, a sleeping Sammy still cradled in his arms. With one hand, he took a pillow and lowered it under Dean's head before he collapsed face-first into the mattress. Deciding to come back for Dean when his hands were free, John lowered Sammy into his crib, loosely arranging his blue fleece blanket with the giraffes over his tiny body. He brushed Sammy's bangs back, pressing a soft kiss on his forehead. Sammy's eyelids fluttered slightly, but he otherwise remained still. "Sweet dreams, Sammy."

John went back over to Dean, lifting his legs and torso up to free the blankets from underneath him. He didn't worry about being as careful moving Dean as he had been with Sammy—when Dean was out, he was _out. _John pulled the covers up over his four-year-old. Sensing the frigidity of the room and taking note of the thin sheets, John shrugged off his leather jacket and laid it over Dean's sleeping frame for extra warmth. He kissed Dean on the forehead as he had done with Sammy. He turned off the TV, set the wall thermostat to a comfortable seventy degrees, and stepped into the bathroom, closing the door partly behind him so he could still listen for his boys.

John turned on the sink, splashing cold water on his face and drying off with a rather threadbare motel towel. He lowered the towel and took inventory of himself in the mirror: his eyes were wary-looking with tired bags beneath them. Anyone would assume that he hadn't slept in days, and they'd be right. His coloring was an unhealthy off-gray and he couldn't remember the last time he'd shaved. People kept telling him he needed to take better care of himself, but his own well-being was the last thing on his mind.

He went back to the room, retrieving his 12 gauge from the closet and sitting on the empty bed with the gun laid across his lap. John scarcely slept at night, if it all. But he did stand watch over his boys, afraid that whatever had killed Mary and mutilated Julie was planning on coming back to finish off his family, and he wasn't going to be caught off-guard. Not again. He was a sentinel, watching Dean and Sammy sleep, eyes alert and ears trained to pick up any sound that seemed even slightly out of the ordinary.

A boom and a flash of light shook the motel room, accompanied by a high-pitched wail. John found himself sitting bolt upright, heart pounding, instinctively gripping his gun, still grasped in his hands despite the evidence that he had drifted off—mainly the fact that his wristwatch now read 2:23. Well, he knew he'd have to give into sleep eventually...

The delirium of sleep faded and his senses were once again sharp. The boom, the flash of light—it had to be thunder. He'd heard on the radio that there was a tumultuous storm in the forecast. As for the high-pitched scream..._Sammy._

John cast the gun aside and rose from his bed, leaning over Sammy's crib to find that Dean had beaten him there, arms wrapped around his scared little brother, who in turn was desperately clinging to Dean. Sammy's face was red and soaked with tears, tossing his head from side to side as Dean stroked his hair, trying to comfort him. How long had the storm been raging? How long had Sammy been crying before it had registered with John's sleep-deprived brain?

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean whispered softly in Sam's ear, looking up at John with frightened eyes. Dean, so brave for his little brother. Dean, who had always been afraid of thunderstorms...

John was overcome with emotion by the sight before him—Dean's instinct to protect his little brother despite being terrified himself. Ever since the fire, when Dean had carried Sammy out of their burning house, the young boy had shouldered the responsibility of an adult when it came to looking out for Sammy, when John was so shattered by grief he could barely function. Dean was so young, and it was such a weight to bear—but Dean did it. He tried to be brave enough for both him and Sammy, and strong enough for all three of them.

"It's alright, Dean. You've done good. I can take it from here," John said, reaching into the crib and lifting both his sons into his arms. Dean gripped his neck as tightly as Sammy had held onto him. He carried the two of them over to bed, settling down with his sons safe in his arms as a storm raged above their heads and all around them.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean whispered again, sounding much more self-assured now that they were with their Dad. "It won't hurt us. Nothing can. You know why? Cos our Dad's not afraid of anything."

Dean had had his say, and once again slipped into his new usual silence. He reached out for Sammy's hands, laid his head against John's chest and allowed himself to close his eyes. The storm was still going strong, but the boys didn't seem afraid anymore with John so nearby, both comforted and secure by their closeness to each other, their father's strong and reassuring embrace. Sammy slowly stopped crying, his breathing evening out, and he finally closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, with Dean following seconds after.

John remained awake, listening to the soothing sounds of his sons breathing and staring at the ceiling, thinking about the last words Dean had said before slipping back into silence: "_our Dad's not afraid of anything." _

But Dean was wrong. There was one thing John Winchester was afraid of: losing his boys. The pain would assuredly kill him—Sammy and Dean were his only reason for living anymore. And that was why he had to find out what happened to Mary; not only to avenge her death, but to be sure it never took Sammy and Dean from him—he couldn't watch them die, too. He would do anything, sacrifice everything, to keep his sons safe. To do that, he'd have to find whatever killed Mary and end it. It was the only way to guarantee Sammy and Dean's safety. Nothing else mattered.

John gazed down at his sleeping sons, overcome by the emotions he felt just looking at them. He needed them, possibly even more than they needed him. In recent weeks, some people had expressed the notion that he was unstable; that the boys would be better off being raised by someone else. But they were wrong. He was their father. No one could ever love Sammy and Dean as much as he did. No one could protect them as fiercely as he would. Nothing was going to hurt them as long as he was around; he'd go to hell and back for his boys.

John was not a religious man; not by a long shot. But the idea of Mary being truly gone, body and soul, was unthinkable to him. His own sanity demanded he believe that Mary was still out there somewhere, watching over all of them. He could still hear Mary's voice in his head, her softly spoken mantra to her boys every night as she tucked them into bed. "_Angels are watching over you..."_

John closed his eyes, praying that if there was such thing as angels, that his Mary was one of them.

...

THE END

AN: Okay, this isn't the first Supernatural fanfiction I've ever posted, but it was the first one I ever wrote, and I was too shy to post it at the time. I hope you guys liked it! Reviews are awesome :)

Also, I try to post a new SPN story every weekend, so follow me if you want to read more and want notifications. Thanks! :)


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